Call Me Crazy
by InfiniteMelody
Summary: " I don't tell him that the medication isn't working. I don't tell him that nightmares still plague me. I don't tell him that everytime it rains, the sound of gunshots reverberate through my skull. I sure as hell don't mention that sometimes I hear whispers of my name at night, apologies that I can't comprehend. " Full summary inside. Rated T for swearing.
1. Summary

" I don't tell him that the medication isn't working. I don't tell him that nightmares still plague me. I don't tell him that every time it rains, the sound of gunshots reverberate through my skull. I sure as hell don't mention that sometimes I hear whispers of my name at night, apologies that I can't comprehend. I probably should, but I don't, and I can't sort out whether that does me good, or dooms me to a longer stay here." Fallon Ramsay is crazy. That's it, one hundred percent, legally, officially crazy. Or at least that's what she thinks, until she meets a certain "hipster-type-guy-with-a-bow-tie".


	2. Hipster-Type-Guy-With-A-Bowtie

_Jesus Christ I hate it here. Everything about this place just makes me want to hurl. The pastel pink walls. Ew. The tacky rainbow bedspreads. Yuck. My assigned doctor, Dr. Kyle. Ew, yuck. I've suggested changes. Maybe new bed sheets, an actual colour scheme, new paintings. Definitely new paintings, because that water colour landscape is down right pissing me off. It's just...bad. How did it manage to sell? Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah! Complaining about this Hell hole. Hmmm, what else? Well here's an idea, how about some actually qualified doctors! I mean, sure they're probably qualified to some extent, but I swear, some of them ought to be patients here instead of treating us. Trust me, I have addressed these problems. Even suggested a suggestion box. But no, apparently I'm not an interior decorator...And I'm crazy. Literally crazy. Not that kind of crazy you use to describe your third grade teacher, or ancient Uncle Joe. Nope, officially and legally crazy. Schizophrenic if you want to get technical. Honestly, I prefer the term "loony". Has a nice ring to it doesn't it?_

My bed creaks as I shift my weight. I was serious about the whole bedspread thing. These things are down right horrible, hardly comfortable much less eye appealing. I tap my pen against my lip as I contemplate what to write next.

On the other side of the room, I hear the sound of a zipper being closed and look over. A young woman, somewhere near my age, 19, give or take a few years, with bright, red, dyed hair cut into a bob, struggles with the zipper on her overflowing suitcase. She lets out a couple of curses as she flounders. I consider going over and helping her out, when she gives a mighty tug and closes the zipper. With a victorious grin, she straightens up and claps her hands. After catching her breath, she grabs the suitcase and hauls it off the bed.

"Leaving so soon Carmen?" I ask her as she wheels past my bed. She laughs one of those type of laughs you force out when someone tells a bad joke, but you don't want to offend them. I didn't think it was that bad. A little dry maybe, but definitely not my worst. Carmen's been here for three years, I've been here for three weeks.

"Can't believe it myself," she says standing in the doorway. Carmen smiles at me, a pitiful smile almost. Ugh, pity. "Well, good luck Fallon." She salutes, literally salutes, and walks away, suitcase in tow. She always was a weird one. I know she isn't there anymore, but I salute back anyway, just for the hell of it.

I look around my room. My now empty room. I haven't really had the chance to accumulate much more than enough to fill a quarter of a wardrobe and half a bedside table. I don't intend on staying long enough to either. There's no way in Hell that I'm going to be here for three years and suddenly turn into an army cadet. I'm not going to turn into one of those pill popping zombies either. No, I've got a plan. Well, more of an outline of self-expectations really. Do what the doctors say. Pop their pills. Take their counselling. I'll be the perfect patient. Foolproof right? Of Course, there's always Plan B, escape, and honestly, escaping from here would be pitifully easy.

The security here is, well least to say, lacking. As of right now, the only thing stopping me would be a particularly obese security guard, and his ancient partner, whom I believe would likely have a stroke in all the excitement of a break out. But in the case that I did get caught, that fatty and grandpa did do their job, then I'd likely be transferred to another hospital, probably one where they actually treated their patients. I don't know if that would be better or worse quite yet. So I've decided that escape would be Plan B.

I throw my pen and notebook down, giving up on my letter to nobody. They slide across my bedside table, then knock into one of my picture frames. It tumbles off the table and lands on the grey carpet with a dull thud.

With a groan, I reluctantly get out of bed and crouch down to pick up the photo. I turn it over and quickly scan over it. It's me. And my parents, smiling. I think that was one of the few times we were ever smiling at the same time. With a dull ache in my chest, I gently place it back on the table.

Loneliness sets in and I find myself walking over to the only window we had in our room. No, my room. I haven't got a room mate anymore, or not yet anyways.

I look out onto the lake view that the hospital was originally named for. Lake View Hospital, original huh? The view really is beautiful though, I'll hand that to them. The red morning sun hits off the small ripples of the lake's surface, making it look as though flames dance along the waves. Trees sway in the breeze lazily. Water laps against the sandy shore of a small beach out front rhythmically. I can imagine birds waking, singing their first, early morning songs. Maybe a mother deer and her fawn are drinking at the shore in the distance. Perhaps an eager family is hiking in the woods, having to book a campsite and rise early, simply to share this view that I get to enjoy every morning. Too bad I'm in a mental hospital. _Ha, Lake View Hospital for the Mentally Unstable, where loonies can suffer in the beauty of nature!_

The rattling of pills in their jars, and the squeaky wheel of Madam Whyte's cart pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn towards the door. Right on cue.

A rather plump woman, somewhere in her sixties, holds out a small styrofoam cup and my medication in a small prescription bottle. She beckons me over and I walk away from the window reluctantly. She smiles awkwardly and hands me the cup. I hold out my hand and she shakes out a pill from the container into my palm.

I throw it into my mouth and down it with a gulp of water. I hold out my hand again and she dumps another pill from another container into my palm. One for hallucinations, the other for depression. I down that one too. I feel a routine forming.

"Breakfast's going to be finished in twenty." She states, ditching the kind, old lady act. As she walks away I resist the urge to salute.

After pacing around the room for a few minutes, I throw on some jeans and head down to the cafeteria. They call it a mess hall. It's a cafeteria. It's pretty much a high school cafeteria. Different groups set their claim on different tables. Even the mentally ill form cliques.

As I walk down the hall, I twist my hair into what could almost pass as a bun. It really doesn't matter how I put it up, it'll still be a mess. It isn't from lack of hygiene or anything like that, god no. Rather my hair is simply a mess. It's at that stage where it is something between crazy curls and bushy. Some people have thick hair, or crazy layers; I have a bird's nest.

The buzz of conversation meets my ears as I round the corner of the hall and reach the front doors of the cafeteria. A few remaining groups of patients sit at tables, scattered around the room. A breakfast bar type buffet table stands at the far end of the room, staff already starting to clear it away. I eagerly rush forward and manage to steal a muffin then make my way back to my room. How adventurous am I? Stealing muffins, walking the corridors alone. I'm just a rebel today aren't I? I think sarcastically. Three weeks here and I've already mastered the art of sarcasm. I swear this place just sucks the joy out of you.

My room is just a hall away from me now. My doctor said he had intended to drop by and discuss my medication, so I should probably head back. Not all that eager to meet up with him, I take a detour, taking the stairs on my right, just adding to my pitiful strike of rebellion. I scurry up the steps and find myself on a landing with two other doors. After a quick game of "Eeny meeny miney mo", I choose the door on the right and tug on the handle. It resists. Locked? Why is it locked?

There's a small window at the top of the door, but I'm not tall enough to reach it. Oh the joys of being 5'4. I reach up, grab the edge of the window and hop up, peeping into the hallway beyond momentarily. All I see are a few, metal machines, glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. A series of little lights on a panel on the wall closest to the door blink and flicker. In the time it takes me to come down, I see a guy, in his forties maybe, in a white lab coat turn and meet my eyes. I panic and jump away from the door. The other door, on my left, wrenches open under my grip and I take off down the hall.

My throat burns and my heart is beating wildly as I full out sprint for the first time in what feels like so long. A crazy, almost cackle like, laugh erupts from my mouth, as I revel in the giddiness of my adrenaline. I pass through another grey, metal door, and run into a stairwell. I catch myself on a railing and crouch over, attempting to regain my breath. My breathing is shallow, and my legs feel like jello.

After a minute or so, I descend an isolated flight of stairs, and emerge into a familiar corridor. My room's at the end of this hall, or the adjoining hallway anyway. Rays of sunlight filter through a series of large windows, overlooking the small beach front. People mill about in the hallway, a few of them nurses, clad in pastel scrubs, others patients, eyes glazed over in what I've named "Zombie Eye" and matching, unkempt hair. I shuffle along the hallway with everyone else, seriously considering just shoving my way past them all, when someone, perhaps with the same idea as me, shoves past me from the opposite direction. With an uncharacteristic squeal, I stumble backwards and land on my butt.

"Sorry, I didn't even see you!" Didn't see you? Story of my life...

I look up and prepare myself with an ear numbing insult, when the words catch in my throat. Some hipster type guy, with brown, floppy hair, stands in front of me, offering his hand to me. I grab it and he pulls me to my feet. I mumble a thanks, and it would be a miracle if he even hears it. What the hell is this guy wearing? A brown, tweed jacket and a bowtie? I raise my eyebrows questioningly, or maybe patronisingly would better describe it. He opens his mouth about to say something then stops. He does it again, floundering. Suddenly, without another word or explanation, he simply just turns on his heel and walks away. I stare after him, bewildered as he turns the corner and disappears. What a ridiculous man. With ridiculous fashion taste, I might add.

After a moment's pause, I turn back and continue on my way, the strange man in my thoughts all the way back to my room.

Already there, waiting for me, greasy, chestnut brown hair, beer belly and all, is my doctor . We have a brief discussion about my medication and my "progress". By discussion I mean, he talks and I kind of listen, nodding here and there. Occasionally I, "Yeah, yeah", but truly, what I say isn't important. It's more the things I don't say that cause me grief. I don't tell him that the medication isn't working. I don't tell him that nightmares still plague me. I don't tell him that everytime it rains, the sound of gunshots reverberate through my skull. I sure as hell don't mention that sometimes I hear whispers of my name at night, apologies that I can't comprehend. I probably should, but I don't, and I can't sort out whether that does me good, or dooms me to a longer stay here. Soon, he bids me goodbye and leaves me alone to my thoughts.

The course of this morning's events run through my mind on a loop. Carmen saluting me, that strange, almost laboratory like room and the strange man with the bowtie. The strange man with the bow tie, hmm... What was he? A patient? A visitor?

I make a game out of it, guessing who he is. My sister and I used to play this game. We'd take a stranger, and try to guess who and what they were. The beauty of it was, it needed not to be realistic or logical in the slightest. In fact, the entire point of the game was to create the most ridiculous identity possible. So far, I've come to two identities; the first, _a soldier who has come home from a year in Afghanistan to see his girlfriend, hoping to propose, but is told by her family that in his absence, her multiple personality disorder surfaced and she was sent here. He rushed here, keen to see his love, but when he proposes to her, she rejects him, her one ego having fallen in love with her other, because her alter ego doesn't wear a bowtie, I might add._

_Identity two; A time travelling alien who travels the universe, saving planets and galaxies from apocalyptic ends._

Ridiculous right? I'll admit, the second one was a bit too Sci Fi for me, but I was pretty proud of it. I mean it was probably my best identity yet. My sister, Elaine, was much better at this game than I. She was the creative one, the one who wrote poems, and stories and pretty lyrics. I'm a more logical type person, Math being my best subject. Though, I wouldn't consider that my only strong point, I'm musical too.

I lie down on my bed, thinking, pondering, wondering. I kick my feet up in the air, my boots still loose on my feet. Out of boredom, I'm kicking my feet in circles, almost as if riding a bicycle, when something heavy falls out of my boot and lands with a clunk on my stomach. I grab it, sit up on the edge of my bed and examine it. What the hell? It's about the length of my hand, composed of some bronze and grey type metals. I twirl it around in my hands curiously, and notice a small button on the side.

With a small click, green light and a _whirring_ sound, springs from the end of the tool, and I drop it in surprise. As it lands on the ground, the _whirring_ sound stops and the end clams shut, turning off the green light. What is it, some type of flashlight? But, more importantly, who does it belong to?

I think back, squinting my eyes in concentration. Think, think, think. Then, realisation hits me. That strange man, the hipster type guy. It must have fallen into my boot when we collided. I gently, pick up the odd device, and keenly examine it in my palm.

To myself, I whisper, "Who are you?"

And that's when I hear the screams

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**_Sorry, I don't usually include author's notes, but I just wanted to thank you for reading my story, as it's my first Doctor Who fanfic. I'll try to update regularly, but I forget to a fair bit, it'll be better once school is over! I was fighting with Doc Manager, it wouldn't let me add in "D-R . L-Y-L-E " at the later parts, still won't so I had to type it like so, it would literally keep everything else except for that name at the end. So yeah, thanks again! :)_**


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